


Ink, a Drug

by xstarxchaserx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Because ohh boy, Bottom!Harry, Did I mention the tattoos?, Eventual Drarry, Fluffy Ending, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Harry Potter/Charlie Weasley, Minor Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s), Not terribly graphic depictions of sex?, Tattoos, bisexual!harry, but wanted to tag it just in case, top!draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xstarxchaserx/pseuds/xstarxchaserx
Summary: The first time, he had no idea what made him do it. It was the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t drunk. He had never particularly entertained the idea before. He wasn’t even in London when it happened.Looking back, that’s probably what helped him go for it.The stories of Harry Potter's tattoos... and how he falls in love.





	Ink, a Drug

**Author's Note:**

> I've been tossing this story around for a hot minute now, and finally managed to knock out the last little bit of it! Kudos and comments make my heart flutter, and you can always find me [on tumblr!](http://www.xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com)

The first time, he had no idea what made him do it. It was the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t drunk. He had never particularly entertained the idea before. He wasn’t even in London when it happened.

Looking back, that’s probably what helped him go for it. Outside of London, outside of the UK, things at least resembled what he had grown to see as normal: there was recognition but not outright hero worship, and while it still bugged him, at least he was able to breathe. In London, anywhere he went, people fell all over themselves to get even a glimpse of the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Defeater of Dark Lords, whatever the fuck they were calling him these days. There was absolutely no way he would have been able to walk into a tattoo shop without it ending up on the front page of the Prophet and Witch Weekly, not while he was in London at least, which was probably why Berlin seemed appropriate. 

He was doing some traveling, going sightseeing and the like, which was his way of coping with (or running from, as Hermione would say) the aftermath of the war. He needed to get out of London. He had attended the funerals, testified at the trials, given the interviews, and rattled around Grimmauld Place until he damn near went mad. He had needed to go, to be alone, so he went. He travelled to Amsterdam and Copenhagen, saw the Northern Lights from a glacier in Finland and drank hot chocolate in a ski lodge in the Swiss Alps. He enjoyed Germany the most out of the places he had visited, the blend of history and modernity was seamless, the Wizarding community brusque and efficient, though the Muggle history was a stark reminder that Voldemort was not the first extremist, and he wouldn’t be the last. 

After a morning spent meandering through shops and eating his way through almost every food cart he saw, he passed a shop that made him pause. 

_Quill and Ink_ was a tidy building, the dark red facade offset from the more neutral buildings around it, but it felt welcoming and warm. The sign showed a traditional feather quill crossed with a modern tattoo gun, and when he stepped inside, he was assaulted by a barrage of color. Classic paintings mingled with samples of the artists’ works, while the entire space was filled with the hum of tattoo guns. Portfolios lined one wall, and he found himself reaching out to flip through them.

“Can I help you with something?” the young man behind the counter asked. He was in his 20s, with soft brown hair and deep blue eyes. It wasn’t until he cocked his head to the side that Harry realized he had been staring. 

“I have never gotten a tattoo before, but I think I’m interested in changing that today.”

“You think?”

Harry hesitated, mulling over the words that had just left his mouth. “No, I know. I know I want one, I’m just not sure what I want yet.”

“We have an artist free who would be able to discuss things with you, if you’ll give me a moment.”

“That would be great, thank you.”

The man disappeared into what must have been the employees only area, and Harry delved into the art on the walls. He suddenly had so many ideas, so many things he could get, so many things he wanted to get. How had he never thought of this before?

 _You were trying pretty hard not to die,_ a voice in his head reminded him. _You didn’t have the time to wonder about anything._

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard footsteps behind him. The artist was covered from throat on down with an array of styles and work that blended seamlessly together. He was tall with dirty blond hair pulled back into a pony tail at the base of his neck.

“Jon said you were interested in discussing a piece. I’m Marcus,” he held out his hand and Harry saw his eyes dart to his forehead. “I think I can help you today.”

“Thank you, Marcus. I’m Harry.”

They shook hands and Harry followed him back to his work station. “So what brings you in here today, Mr. Potter?”

Harry sighed. “Look, I’m not—.”

“Hey, hey. No need to panic. We’re a discreet, half Wizard/half Muggle shop. I thought you knew that when you came in.”

“No, honestly. I’ve never done this before. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as Wizarding tattoo shops.”

“Oh, yes. We can add all sorts of details: color changing ink, vanishing marks, moving pieces. It’s really incredible, all the advancements the technology has made, and that’s not even taking into consideration the healing spells and potions that can be used to make the process more pleasant. What were you interested in?”

“I have no idea. No, that’s not it. I have a million ideas, but none of them quite feel right.”

“Are you… are you looking for a memorial piece?”

Harry felt his breath leave him. Was that what he wanted? It felt right, and yet… “I don’t know if that’s the right phrase for it. A reminder, perhaps.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, idly turning a pen in his hand. “How much of what’s in the books is true?”

“The only one really worth its salt is the Lovegood one. I gave that interview, as well as had a hand in the editing process.”

“Okay, good. That’s the only one I’ve read. Can I draw something up for you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Where did you want it?”

Harry paused. “I think my chest, maybe? Or my upper arm? Or shoulder—?”

Marcus laughed. “Okay, okay. I have an idea. Give me a little while, maybe half an hour? You can hang out here, if you’d like.”

So Harry did. They talked about Quidditch and how the World Cup was being held in Germany the following year. Harry learned that there were other options for schooling than the ones he had heard of. Marcus was taught at home by a private tutor and was actually able to attend Muggle public school as well, which was how he fell in love with design and specifically the feel of body modifications and the art that accompanied them. Eventually, Marcus put the pen down and, after a moment, allowed Harry to look.

“What do you think?”

It was a great stag head, proud and strong, surrounded by a variety of lilies in several different colors. The background was a swirl of night sky, three stars to the left of the antlers, and a crescent moon to the right of them. 

“It would look best on your chest. All the lilies mean different things. Lily of the valley is purity of heart, the yellow ones are friendship. I can make the stars and moon gold, like actually gold. I’ve been working with a metallic ink potion—.”

“Marcus…” Harry breathed, cutting off the other man’s nervous rambling. “It’s perfect.”

Marcus smiled, his anxiety vanishing at once. “Excellent. Did you want to do this today?”

“Please.”

“Okay. First, I need you to fill out some forms while I get this into a transfer stencil. And I won’t lie, Harry. This is going to hurt. I can ease it a little bit, but-.”

“it’s worth it.”

Six and a half hours later, Harry stood in front of the mirror, gingerly running his finger tips over the newly raised lines. It had hurt, making his bones ache and his lungs struggle for air, but Gods…

“Are you alright?” Marcus asked after he had been silent for a full minute. “Do you like it?”

Harry could only nod, his throat blocked as it was with tears. His parents, forever by his heart. A reminder, not of the war itself, but where he came from. Why he fought. The father who gave him his sense of pride, his adventurous spirit, his messy hair. His mother, with her curiosity and vivid green eyes who gave her life for his, whose love protected him through so much of his life, even though she couldn’t physically be there for him. 

Marcus touched his shoulder lightly, and Harry wiped his face, pulling himself together. “We never discussed pricing. Just name it, anything, and I’ll—.”

“Nothing. You don’t owe me anything. I’m simply happy you trusted me with this, Harry. It was as much an honor as it was a pleasure.”

“Marcus—.”

“I mean it.”

Harry sighed. “At least let me buy you a pint? Or dinner? Some way to repay you, and I know that I, for one, am absolutely starving.”

“Dinner would be great, then. Give me a few to clean my station?”

“Of course.”

Harry should have seen it coming, really, somewhere between the first time he had met Marcus’ eyes in the shop and the first belly laugh over their meal, and yet he didn’t really know it was happening until he settled the tab and stepped outside and Marcus offered him a cigarette and asked how far away his hotel was.

Marcus’ flat was closer.

They fell into bed easily- far easier than Harry’s panicked inner monologue told him they would. He was a good mimic, so he followed Marcus’ lead. Watched him. Felt him. Adapted and adjusted and soon they were both panting their releases and Gods, how could he have not known?

He extended his stay in Berlin, spending time with Marcus when there weren’t clients at the shop and discovering more of Berlin when there were. They explored every square inch of one another, taking hours curled together in bed. It was a blissful week and a half, seeming to stretch for a lifetime, until an owl tapped on the window of his hotel room in the early morning hours. 

It was time for him to go home.

____________________

He put a little more thought into it the second time around.

He had spent the two months that he had been back in London (and of course he came back to London, it wasn’t every day his two best friends got engaged) repairing Grimmauld Place. He cleared out the dirt and clutter, updated the wallpaper and furniture, even managed to find a curse breaker that was able to remove good ol’ Walburga from the entrance way. It had finally started to feel like a home, like a place he could see himself actually living in- not simply existing in, as he had directly after the war. 

He had saved Sirius’ room for last. 

Once that room was finished, he immediately went searching for a well reviewed tattoo parlor and got a great black dog bounding through a field of watercolor flowers that moved as though blown by a gentle breeze up the right side of his ribcage, free in the way that Sirius couldn’t be. He was certain that Sirius would be equal parts mortified by the sentimentality of it all and completely flattered. 

A picture of him leaving the shop made it all over the Wizarding magazines, just as he feared it would, but he found that he didn’t quite give a damn. 

Let them talk.

_____________________

The third time was a year later. His best friends were getting married, and he had been put in charge of Ron’s stag night. Hermione was clear that there was to be no strip clubs or burlesque shows or anything else where people took their clothes off for money. Neither Harry nor Ron had any desire to argue with her, so they made a day of it. Friends from school joined them in a Quidditch match at Hogwarts’ field, mostly folks from Dumbledore’s Army, as well as George, Bill, and Charlie. The game stretched most of the day until Charlie captured the snitch right under Harry’s nose, much to the aggravation of Ron who had been Keeper for Harry’s team. Harry himself was rather frustrated: not at Charlie, no, but at himself for getting distracted by the other man’s grace on his broom.

They all argued good-naturedly over the lunch that the Hogwarts house elves had prepared for them, courtesy of McGonagall. 

During one of the lulls in conversation, Ron cleared his throat. “Harry, I want to get a tattoo.”

Harry choked on his butterbeer. “What?”

“I want to get a tattoo. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I want to get one.” 

“Hermione said I was to bring you back in the condition you left the house in, Ron. She'll kill me.”

“It’s just a tattoo! I promise, I’ll handle her. Please?”

Despite Harry being sure that no one could ever _handle_ Hermione Jean Granger, he acquiesced to Ron’s request, and called ahead to the shop that he had gotten his last piece done to check on availability for the day. Four of them ended up heading to the shop, with Charlie and George joining them. 

“Harry!” It was Liam, the artist who had worked on him the last time he was there. “It’s good to see you. I was happy to hear you decided to come back. Happy with the piece then?”

“Most definitely. I wouldn’t have brought my friend here if I wasn’t,” he said as he clapped Ron on the shoulder. “He’s getting married next week- we’re completely sober, I swear to you, just a handful of butterbeer between us all- and asked for a tattoo as part of his stag night shenanigans.”

“Well, I’m sure we can help with that. What are you looking to get?”

“Well, like Harry said, I’m getting married and… I’ve heard of these tattoos that can point you in a certain direction. I… I want one that will always point me to her. Is that possible?”

“We can definitely do that. Let me grab Callie, that sort of charm work is her specialty.”

“Ron, I didn’t expect you to be such a sap!” George said.

“I was expecting some sort of Gryffindor crest, to be honest,” Harry agreed. 

Ron was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “Guys… I lost her once already, in the Forest of Dean. I don’t want to ever risk that happening again.”

None of them had words after that. 

While he was talking things over with Callie, Liam approached Harry. “Are you looking to have some more work added as well?”

“I wasn’t planning on anything, and I honestly don’t know what I would want.”

“Let me choose for you,” Charlie said. “Consider it my winnings for kicking your arse around the pitch today.”

“You did no such thing!”

“Whose team won, may I ask you? I promise it won’t be anything untoward. No nudity or profanity or anything awful. You’ll be sure of that, right, Liam?”

“So long as Harry consents to it, I’ll make sure whatever it is is tasteful.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, mate,” Charlie said, slinging his arm over Harry’s shoulder. “It will be a good exercise in trust. Don’t tell me the great Boy Who Lived is scared. Besides…” he dropped his voice, “you were able to stare at me all day. I’d like the chance to do the same.”

Harry panicked before his brain caught up with his ears, recognizing the dark undertone of Charlie’s voice not as a threat, but as a promise, and he flushed right up to his hairline. “I guess. So long as it’s nothing awful, Charlie. I mean it.”

“Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll take good care of you.” There was that undertone again, that lower pitch, and Harry knew without a doubt that he was going to end up in bed with Charlie Weasley that night. 

They were in the shop for four hours. Ron’s tattoo was finished in half that time: a Muggle compass surrounded by flowers and feathers, the arrow moving as he moved, to constantly point him to Hermione. Harry’s took longer, and when he finally got a look at it, he couldn’t help but smile. It was a great red and gold phoenix in Liam’s watercolor style, wings fluttering, weaving around his left thigh. He watched in fascination as it spread its wings wide and burst into flames, crumpling to ashes, before being born again. 

“I love it, Charlie.”

“Thought you might,” Charlie responded with a soft smile. “It took a lot of trust. Thank you.”

“Just that damned Gryffindor courage, I promise you.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever makes you feel better about your vulnerability.”

“You _bastard—_.” 

They bickered back and forth while they all settled the tab with their artists and made their way out of the shop. They dropped Ron off at his house, stayed just long enough to watch as Hermione’s face shifted from anger to deep, deep fondness over the news of Ron’s latest addition, and left them to it. They invited George out for a pint, but he just laughed.

“I’m not as blind as Ron, gentlemen, and I don't want to be around to see you two pawing at one another. Go, before I vomit.”

That was all it took before Charlie had Harry in his arms and they were apparating away. Harry stumbled a little at the sudden shift in location, but looked around to see that they had appeared in a wooded clearing that had a tent set up in it. 

“Where are we?” he asked.

“I chose to camp instead of actually staying inside the Burrow. I remember how it was with Bill and Fleur getting married, and I really don’t want to be in the cross hairs this time as well.” He took a step closer to Harry, then another, before he cupped Harry’s face in his hand. “Tell me I’m not misreading things, Harry. Tell me I’m not pressuring you. Tell me that you want this too.”

Harry responded by closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together. “That enough of an answer for you?”

Charlie growled, grabbed Harry by the hips, and pulled them together so they could kiss again, all while slowly walking them back toward the tent. It was spacious, as most wizarding tents were, and even had a skylight in it that showed nothing but the stretch of stars and moonlight filtering in above them. Harry waved his hand and a few of the candles around the tent came to life.

“Did you just do that _wandlessly_? While _distracted_?” Charlie pulled away to ask.

Harry shrugged. “I prefer having the lights on.”

“So… you’ve done this before?”

“Yes, I have. Does that bother you?”

“No, it’s a relief. Means I don’t have to be quite so gentle with you.”

“I’d really prefer if you weren’t. Gentle, that is.”

That’s how he found himself being _carried_ to the bed, the buttons on his shirt popped off, the fly on his jeans yanked open. He gave as good as he got, pulling Charlie’s sweater over his head and fighting with the belt buckle until he finally gave up and vanished their clothes. Charlie let out a startled laugh, then growled again. 

“Gods, that shouldn't be as sexy as it is.”

“Of course it should be. Haven’t you heard? I’m the great Boy Who Lived—.”

Charlie cut him off with another bruising kiss, and the shift in position lined their cocks up together. Harry rutted up against him, hands wrapping around to grip Charlie’s arse, pulling him in closer. 

“Want to fuck you, Harry, but Gods…”

“We have all night, don’t we?”

Charlie stopped moving and met Harry’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we do.”

Their first time was over quickly, Harry reaching between them to grasp both their cocks in his hand, stroking in time with their thrusts. Charlie added a lubrication spell and his own hand into the mix and soon they were both panting and coming and collapsing onto the bed. The silence stretched for several long minutes, broken only by their slowly quieting breaths, until Harry couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. 

“What’s so funny?” Charlie asked.

“I’ve thought you were attractive since we ended up at the Quidditch World Cup before my fourth year, and I think I’ve only just allowed myself to remember that fact.”

“You were a little busy—.”

“Trying not to die, yes. Still, I feel like 14 year old me would be damn pleased right now.”

“Well, I’m currently damn pleased with you right now, but the level of that happiness depends on what, exactly, your refraction time is.”

Harry could only laugh as he rolled over and straddled Charlie’s thighs, allowing him to feel his already half hard cock. “I think you’ll be very happy indeed.”

________________________

The fourth time was a spur of the moment decision made out of anger.

He and Charlie had stayed together, not quite dating, definitely not monogamous, for the better part of a year, making time to see each other even after Charlie headed back to Romania once the wedding was over. A photo of the two of them dancing together at Ron and Hermione’s wedding made its way to the Prophet, and soon Harry was no longer fielding questions about his tattoos or his career prospects, but rather about his sexuality. 

He was gay-ish, he supposed. Bisexual was the proper term, with a heavy preference for men. He had enjoyed his time with Cho (messy though that was), and had loved Ginny before the war had turned them into entirely different people, loved her still as a sister after everything. He still found women attractive, had slept with a few of them in his travels as well, but nothing he said could stop the newspapers and magazines from running their headlines “BOY WHO LIVED COMES OUT AS GAY,” “HARRY POTTER: NEW GAY ICON,” or his favorite one, “HARRY POOFTER.”

He walked into Liam’s shop, thankful to find him free. “Harry! Good to see you. How are you handling everything?”

“I’d really like the bisexual pride flag tattooed on my wrist, if you have the time.”

“What?”

“I’m not gay, not like they’re saying, but I’m definitely not straight.”

“So, a statement piece then?” Harry nodded. “I think I’ve got something in mind. Come on.”

He walked out less than an hour later with two, black outlined, interlocking triangles on his wrist overflowing with splashes of pink, purple, and blue, gently pulsing together. It flowed beautifully, infinitely better than the simple rectangular flag design he had gone in there expecting, and a picture of it made its way into the Quibbler article he sat with Luna for. It was the only image of any of his tattoos to make it to publication.

______________________________

The collar of his robe itched. 

He hated these formal events, hated anything he had to attend that required him to smile and socialize with people he really would have preferred to avoid. 

“Can you please try to not look like you swallowed a toad?” Hermione asked as she handed him a glass of champagne.

“You know how much I hate these things. Everyone is so… so _fake_. It’s terrible.”

“I know, Harry, but this is our biggest event of the year. You know it gets the most donations for the Orphans’ Fund. We’ve worked really hard—.”

“You mean, you’ve worked really hard. Hermione, I am amazed by the things that you can do with an event. If I liked parties at all, I’m sure this one would be great.”

“You just prefer to be grumpy all the time.”

“I’m not grumpy—.”

“You’re right, you’re lonely. Have you heard from Charlie lately?”

Harry tried to stop himself from appearing as deflated as he felt, but from Hermione’s expression, he failed. “He’s seeing someone in Romania now. It seems to be getting pretty serious. And, before you start, I don’t need nor want your pity. It was a casual thing, we were clear with each other about that from the start.”

“Harry—. Oh!”

He followed her gaze to where it landed across the room and saw none other than Draco Malfoy standing there, looking resplendent in smoky grey robes trimmed in dark blue that fastened up his neck. He had filled out since the last time Harry saw him standing shivering, robes ripped and torn, face muddied as he awaited his sentence. It was that image, one that spoke so clearly of the neglect and abuse the prisoners in Azkaban were still dealing with despite the Dementors having been vanquished, that pushed Harry into a career built on bettering the systems of governance so that none of them ever had to face the cruelty enacted by Voldemort ever again.

Prison reforms were one of his first projects. More lighting was added, environmental stasis charms were put in place to allow the prisoners time outside all year round, proper, balanced meals three times a day, access to books. It was hard going and took over a year after his return from his travels, but eventually Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic, signed a bill into law making fair treatment of prisoners mandatory.

“He doesn’t usually come to functions like this, and I wasn’t sure he would make an exception for this one despite having asked him personally to attend. Have you heard about his donation?”

“Who hasn’t? The papers haven’t written about anything else since the announcement was made.”

Draco Malfoy, sole heir and beneficiary of the Malfoy estate, had announced that he was donating the Malfoy Manor, its extensive grounds, and most of the house elves belonging to his family to be used as a space to house those children who were orphaned in the war. It had been a growing problem, one that the Ministry had worked tirelessly for three full years to try to combat: how to best care for those children most in need of a stable home? Hermione introduced the concept of the Muggle foster care system, but there were too many children for that. There were many small houses for the children, but no where centralized and stable where they could be looked after to the standard they all should be, until Hogwarts was an option for them. 

The Malfoy Manor, having been cleared of any and all dark magic and artifacts that once resided there, would become this place. Live in teachers and nurses and staff had been hired, renovations had been completed, and they were already beginning the process of moving the children into their new home. 

“I have to go say hello to him. Would you like to come with me?”

“No, no thank you.”

“Harry, it’s been three years. You testified at his trial. Surely you’re over—.’

“Hermione, don't push this.” He drew in a deep breath and met her eyes. “Please.”

She studied him for a moment before nodding shortly and walking away. Harry finished his drink in one go, then headed in the opposite direction. It took him nearly 20 minutes to get out to the balcony, and once he was there, he fished in the pocket of his robes for his cigarettes. 

He had been prepared for a lot of things tonight. The hand shakes and the sweet talking and the stories from survivors and those who thought they knew what it meant to have survived the war when really, they were safe holed up with their pure blood and vaults full of gold. He had prepared himself for the inanity of it all, but he hadn’t thought for a second to prepare himself for this. 

_Draco Malfoy._

It’s funny, really, how so many years have passed since that first meeting in Madame Malkins. Strange how in all that time, the mere sight of him could make Harry’s blood boil. He knew, obviously, that his actions during the war were not his own. He was trying to save his family’s life, trying to do the best he could as only a scared and lonely young man could. Knowing that didn’t help Harry forget the years of insults and fights and—.

_And a tear stained face and blood spilling across the floor, swirling amongst the water, rivers of it._

_A raised wand, hand trembling, curses unsaid and promises kept._

_They never tell you how black blood looks in the moonlight._

The soft _snick_ of the door shutting behind him snapped him out of his memories, and he didn’t have to look up in order to know that it was Malfoy. 

“You’re supposed to smoke them, Potter. Not light them and watch the ashes burn down.”

Harry started, and was almost ashamed to look down and notice his cigarette had burned down to the filter. “Damn it. That’s what I get for spacing out.”

“Blame it on the wrackspurts.” If Draco Malfoy had stepped out on to the balcony in his pants, Harry wouldn’t have been any more surprised. “I’ve been working with Luna a lot recently. Much to my dismay, her… eccentricities have started to rub off on me.”

“Is that so?” Harry asked while pulling out another cigarette. 

“She is, for all of her insanity, rather brilliant at keeping my office under control.”

“Would you like one?” Harry said, gesturing with his pack.

“Do I look like I’m the sort to want to kill myself slowly?”

Harry couldn’t help the snort of laughter. “No, no. You would be one more for the drama and flair. Or the ease of a quick death.”

“Damn right. Hand one over, would you?”

Hermione found them in the same spot an hour later, laughing together over some the garish outfits some of the Ministry Officials were wearing. It was a conversation Harry never anticipated having, especially not with Draco Malfoy of all people, and Hermione seemed to feel the same way. She hesitated before speaking.

“Um… I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re both wanted inside.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to give a speech, Hermione,” Harry says.

“And I told you that you didn’t have a choice. Both of you, inside.”

The door closed behind her, and Draco spoke. “She’s bloody terrifying.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Let’s get this over with. We can continue our conversation after. I wasn’t nearly one with talking about Mafalda Hopkirk’s atrocious excuse for dress robes.”

Harry spoke first, a brief thank you to all in attendance, with more words of gratitude directed at Draco personally for his donation. There was a murmur through the crowd at his words— their rivalry was legendary, after all, despite Harry’s testimony. Harry paid it no mind, focused more on the man standing off to his side who had a flush slowly rising up his face that was most definitely not from the champagne. 

When Draco took the podium after him, he squared his shoulders and spoke of how the manor was transformed into a space that could be as much of a home for the children orphaned in the war as it wasn’t for him. He wanted there to be light and laughter in the halls, a place of hope and happiness to drive out the darkness that had resided there for so long. 

“I hope that the children who grow up in those walls will know love and happiness. Will smile when faced with something they do not understand. Will never be afraid to explore, to learn, to ask questions. I hope, with all of my heart, that the children who will grow up in that house will make it into the home that it never was for me. It is up to us, to all of us, to raise this next generation with open hearts, open minds, and a genuine passion for helping one another. It is up to them to make this peace last, but we must show them the way. Thank you.”

The applause that follows is deafening, on par with the applause Harry received, but he wasn’t paying it any mind. He was watching Draco shake hands with Kingsley and the other board members of the Orphan Fund. His hair caught the light and his smile was luminous. 

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione said from beside him, sighing deeply.

“What?” he said, snapping back into the moment.

“I can’t believe I’m actually saying this but… Go after him. Don’t let him get away.”

“What on earth are you talking about, Hermione? I’m not interested in him.”

“It’s always been him, Harry. You’ve been enamored with him since we were children, even when you wanted to throttle him. I saw you both outside. The way he was looking at you…” She broke off and sighed again. “More importantly, I saw the way you were looking at _him._ You deserve to be happy. You _both_ deserve to be happy. Now, go. You’re both done here this evening. Get out of here.”

“Hermione…”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t, Harry. I know you well enough to know that.”

He knew she was right, of course. She almost always was.

“Harry…” she said softly. “Go.”

He caught Draco as he stepped off the dais. “That was a brilliant speech.”

“Thank you. I certainly hope people listen.”

“Some will, and that’s the important part.”

“Very true. Shall we continue our conversation about the terrible fashion choices of this evening?”

“I would like that…” It was now or never, he reminded himself. “I have a very good bottle of Firewhiskey back at my house. Perhaps we can continue our chat there?”

Draco stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Harry. “Are you asking me to come home with you, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, I am.”

Not 15 minutes later they were stumbling out of the floo in the living room of 12 Grimmauld Place and kicking off their shoes while Harry showed Draco around.

“I see you’ve made some changes,” Draco says. “Thank god for that. The house was dilapidated when I was a child, and I can only imagine what happened to it after it was left abandoned.”

“It was pretty bad. I’ve redone all the rooms, adding more light to the place, clearing out all the dust and cobwebs. Got ol’ Walburga off the wall in the hallway.”

“It feels like a home again.”

“Good,” Harry said. "I never really had a home, not one that was really mine. Now, when I come home and step through the floo or the front door, I feel settled. It was… hard, at first, for a lot of reasons, but I think I’m getting there.”

“I used to run through this house like a little terror until Mother scooped me up. Is Kreacher still the house elf here?”

With a crack that startled them both, the elf in question appeared and started fawning over Draco with all of the attention he never spared for Harry. When they finally extricated themselves from Kreacher, they made their way up to the study, giggling all the while. Harry lit the fire with a wave of his hand as he walked to the liquor cabinet.

“Did you just do that—?”

“Wandlessly?” Harry interrupted. “Yeah. Is that really such a big thing? I had meant to ask the last time someone brought it up to me, but I was a bit, er, distracted at the time.”

“It is rare, but not unheard of. It usually takes a lot of practice, effort, and study, none of which I’m assuming you’ve put in to learning it.”

“I’d almost be insulted by that if you weren’t spot on.”

“And what were you distracted by that you didn’t ask the question before?”

Harry chuckled and handed Draco his drink, standing near the warmth of the fire with him. “Oh, I was a little preoccupied making sure that our clothes vanished as well.” 

His chuckle turned into outright laughter when Draco coughed on his drink.

“Why, Potter. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Harry simply hummed. “I think I’d prefer if you called me Harry, to be honest. I think we’re past surnames, don’t you?”

Draco eyed him carefully. “I think, before I answer that, you should tell me why exactly you invited me back to your home with you.”

“For the conversation, mostly. I surprised myself by enjoying the time we spent together at the gala. You made it… more than bearable. Almost enjoyable, which is never the case with those functions.”

After a beat, Draco prodded further. “So, mostly conversation. What was the rest of the reasoning?”

Harry swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the auburn liquid catch the firelight for a few moments before he answered. “The rest… Well, quite frankly, I want to kiss you.” He met Draco’s suddenly deep stare. “Figured I might have a better shot of working up to that if we got to know each other a little bit more.”

The silence stretched for just long enough that Harry began to apologize, before Draco cut him off. “You know, you might have a better chance if you just asked me.”

“What—? _Oh._ ” Harry paused only to set his glass on the mantle. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

Harry made himself be gentle, to take his time and ease into it. No matter how much he wanted to take and claim, he wanted to savor the moment more. Only when he went to pull away and a soft note of protest spilled out of Draco’s mouth, fingers grasping at the front of Harry’s robes, did he allow himself to make the kiss deeper. He moved his hand from Draco’s jaw to the back of his head, angling him so their mouths fit together seamlessly, and it felt so _right_ , that it sang through him. 

This time, he did pull away, but only enough so he could rest his forehead against Draco’s, sharing breaths for a moment before Draco broke the silence.

“I’m thinking we’re definitely on a first name basis,” he said with a laugh that Harry echoed. “I’m also thinking that, if and only if you want to, I wouldn’t mind if some of that clothing vanishing happened.”

The last of the laughter died in Harry’s throat before he pulled Draco closer again. “Oh, gods, yes.”

Their kiss this time was _hungry,_ teeth and tongues getting involved while hands pulled at robes and shirts. Draco was faster (and better at distractions), leaving Harry to kick off his trousers while Draco worked to free himself from his own, leaving them both in their pants and shirts and nothing else.

It wasn’t until Harry began to work on the fine silver buttons of the shirt Draco was wearing that the tone shifted from hunger to _curiosity._

Every button that Harry unfastened revealed another inch of skin, another inch that Harry pressed his lips to, but three buttons down, pale as cream collarbones gave way to a riot of color. Sprays of chrysanthemums and forget-me-nots danced with pansies and narcissus across his chest. Above his heart sat a cracked open pomegranate with its flash of red seeds spilling out among the blossoms while a deep, forest green snake wove its way through the leaves. The flowers stretched up to cup his shoulders, bleeding into a forest etched into one arm and a dessert onto the other. Constellations winked across his ribcage in familiar patterns in a galaxy of color, swirling and pulsing and _alive._

Harry was certain he hadn’t seen so many shades of green and earth, hadn’t seen the stars so vividly, hadn’t felt this _much_ since he had gone on his own adventures, but here, right in front of him, was the summation of all of the things he had ever loved about the wild. 

And there, on his left forearm, sat the mark of a snake wound through a skull, now surrounded entirely by more flowers, roses this time, and carnations as well. The colors weaving through the faded Dark Mark and bringing light to a place where there had only been stark black-and-white. 

“ _Oh, _” Harry breathes.__

__Then they’re pulling at each other again, going down to the plush carpet while the warmth of the fire bathed them in its glow. It didn’t take long before the rest of their clothes were gone and Draco settled between Harry’s thighs and the first rock of their bodies together made them both gasp. A hushed conversation and more wandless magic and Draco slid into Harry in one, smooth motion._ _

__It was gentler than it had any right to be, sighs and pleas instead of the screams Harry had envisioned, but every roll of Draco’s hips into him lit up his nerves light fireworks. It was perfect and everything he didn’t know he had wanted, right back to the start, really. He expected that tension to spill over, bleed into this, but they were completely different people than they had been._ _

__And when Draco’s fingers wrapped around his cock, urging him over the edge just seconds before his own release hit, Harry found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind taking the plunge together._ _

_______________________ _

__There were more tattoos added over the years, like the coordinates of the place where they went on their first actual date, the names of their children, a dragon that loved to curl up in the crook of his arm._ _

__Out of all of them, though, his favorite had to have been the thin, silver inked band around his left ring finger, and the matching one in gold that Draco wore._ _


End file.
